


Debauchery is the best way to ignore your feelings

by Brownies96



Series: Good Omens Missing Chapters [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1630-1862, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst, M/M, Multi, Other, Slow Burn, Swearing, and only in the last chapter, history nerd time, so slow, violence is dream violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brownies96/pseuds/Brownies96
Summary: It would appear that Crowley and Aziraphale's Arrangement is evolving into something that looks suspiciously like friendship. Friendship is a tall order between an angel and a demon, and they're about to find out why.





	1. Like an Idiot, He Kept Going

1630 Padua

From inside the roof of the Basilica of St Anthony, Aziraphale offered the archangels a quick smile before leaving. He thought his report had gone over rather well, but it could be tricky to tell, especially with Uriel, they would have made an excellent poker player if they had the opportunity and inclination.

It had been a particularly useful discovery of his, that miracles in Heaven didn’t send out shockwaves that others could detect. It made sense, of course, Heaven was made of them, it was where he drew his power from. But when he’d seen Michael summon Holy water and had realised that he hadn’t felt the rush of a miracle, it had set off an idea.

Right before he left, just as he was about to cross the boundary that would return him to Earth, he clicked his fingers and a carefully sealed letter disappeared from his drawstring purse. Satisfied, he crossed the boundary.

He made his way back to the university over the Ponte di San Lorenzo, a bridge that the Romans had built, though under a different name. Aziraphale could remember them building it, thought it was beginning to fall into both disrepair and the Medoacus river.

On the bridge, looking out over the river with his mind beyond the clouds, was an old man. The man, dressed in scholars’ robes, looked up as he heard Aziraphale’s footsteps on the bridge.

“Signor Fallé, I trust your business went well,” he said.

“As well as one can hope,” Aziraphale replied, deliberately vague.

“Ah, well, I should be returning to my book,” the man said, standing up straighter now that he was contemplating moving.

“That would probably be wise,” Aziraphale agreed, “Did you just come out here to take a break?”

“Yes, I’m tired of writing. There is nothing I can say that will get me out of this situation. Either I tell the truth and am condemned, or I lie and have to live with myself.” The man sighed, examining his ink-splattered hands.

Aziraphale looked at him with a mixture of pity and respect. “Tell me about it,” he said, “I won’t condemn you, and the words won’t be written down to be used as evidence against you.”

“Again? Signor Fallé, surely you are bored of my lectures by now. Surely your books are more interesting than the stars and the planets?” The man smiled at him.

“My books will still be there when you are done,” Aziraphale replied, settling next to the man on the bridge.

He enjoyed all of Signor Galilei’s lectures. As a Principality, a guardian, he had not had a whole lot to do with the creation of the universe. And since time hadn’t really existed back then, he wasn’t sure how much from Before he remembered. He enjoyed Her creation, certainly. But he had not given much thought regarding how it had come to be. Before Margaret of England, before the 14th Century, he’d simply enjoyed that it was, and gave thanks to Her where he could. But he could still hear Crowley saying “I made that one. I made so many stars. I wonder if they’ll be the last thing I ever make.”

He told himself that his interest in Galileo’s theories about the universe was purely academic. As if he didn’t thoroughly enjoy the human’s company and as if he couldn’t hear Crowley’s sad whisper in his head.

* * *

Dear C,

Thank you for the recommendation, you were quite right, the Oca in onto was far better at that Inn. Shame it’s so much further away from the university, but it was certainly worth the added travel time.

Padua continues to be interesting, one of the former students will be releasing a treatise soon looking at the differences between geocentrism and heliocentrism. It has already caused quite an uproar, as you can no doubt imagine, even the Pope has gotten involved.

Should you arrive in Padua before your next report is due, I can always be found at the university library.

Sincerely,

A

Crowley hoped that Hell hadn’t noticed how reliable he’d suddenly gotten at handing his reports in on time. It was stupid, really, but every time he snapped his fingers and got a letter sent to Aziraphale he’d feel this heady rush and before he knew it, he was addicted.

He knew it wasn’t worth the risk of being caught by Hell. The Arrangement was bad enough but letters? A friendship with the enemy? That was beyond idiotic. And beyond that, it wasn’t enough. He felt like garbage even admitting that to himself: it was Aziraphale, perfect, stupid, wonderful Aziraphale. Who cares if it’s enough? Anything was more than he deserved. He’d take what he could get.

So, like an idiot, he kept going, taking the shortcut through Hell to Padua.

The university of Padua cut an imposing figure, the silhouette of a palace standing proud against the sunset. Crowley, seemingly unmoved by this, entered.

Libraries, regardless of shape, size, and population, always meet certain criteria: The smell of old and new books, as well as a little something else unique to libraries; and the fact that the specific thing one is looking for will be impossible to find, but gems that one didn’t even know to look for will be easily found. These are the fundamental facts of libraries.

Unfortunately, this meant that Crowley, who was looking for Aziraphale, struggled to find him. But Aziraphale, who was not in search of Crowley, found him in the same way one might find a hidden book on the exact topic they need. He excused himself from Galileo and walked over to the lost demon.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Crowley replied, feeling like he was about to be attacked by books from all directions.

“Oh, it is, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, either unaware of Crowley’s sarcasm, or choosing to ignore it. “But I think I know somewhere you’d prefer.”

Aziraphale lead Crowley outside and around to a domed building some distance away from the rest of them.

“An observatory?” Crowley asked, surprised.

“Not just an observatory, the observatory,” Aziraphale said, still smiling. “This is where Galileo Galilei has been putting together his book on heliocentrism versus geocentrism.” Aziraphale was rather glad he’d gotten all the words right, Italian was a bit more fiddly than Latin.

Crowley just stared at Aziraphale in awe.

“Oh no!” Aziraphale cried, patting down his own scholars’ robes (in unusual white, but people tended not to notice that). “Ordinarily I borrow his key, but I must have forgotten.” Aziraphale looked rather sad.

“He could have miraculously left the door unlocked?” Crowley suggested, having moved closer to Aziraphale as soon as he showed any sign of distress.

“No, if anyone were to find out . . . He’s in enough trouble already,” Aziraphale said, still patting his robes in search of the key.

Crowley looked at the dome thoughtfully and then back against the university. There was some degree of tree cover, he supposed. He put his hands to his temples and surveyed out. Bless it all! One bloody student was looking out from his window, probably contemplating an exam or something.

He waited and waited for the student to close his window and go to bed. Just when he was about to give up, he felt the window shutter close. Perfect.

He tossed Aziraphale a crooked smile, “No one’s watching.”

“Crowley I’m not going to put him at-“

“Not that. I meant this, Angel,” Crowley reached back and spread his wings. It felt good to get them out, like relaxing a muscle he didn’t even know he was flexing. “Come on,” he told Aziraphale, excitement plain for anyone to see.

When Aziraphale unfurled his own wings, as bright as Crowley’s were dark, Crowley had to stop his corporation from breathing for a moment in fear that it would start hyperventilating, they were so beautiful.

But just like in any other situation that ran the risk of becoming sweet and tender, Crowley summoned all his bravado and swept himself into the air. He had to keep reminding himself, that his goal was just to get on top of the dome, not to show off. He managed to keep himself down to only one loop-the-loop.

He patted the dome next to him, a gesture for Aziraphale to join him. Aziraphale flew up elegantly, without showing off like Crowley had. Well, maybe not as much as Crowley had; he still spun slightly, several feet above the spot next to Crowley, before gliding himself down in a sitting position.

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, his crooked smile still plastered on his face, but more of it was visible now, the flying had knocked his eyeglasses askew. Crowley seemed to freeze a little when he noticed this before straightening them back into position.

“Do you remember?” Aziraphale began, “back at Kinclaven Castle.”

Crowley froze properly this time. He did remember. Vividly. He’d hoped, desperately, that Aziraphale had forgotten about his outburst. But apparently not. He could still remember that dark, destructive feeling that had consumed him as he’d asked, “Why comfort a demon anyway?” Like it was easier for him to make Aziraphale leave than deal with the misery that had consumed him.

“Uh,” he said articulately.

“When you told me you’d helped make the stars,” Aziraphale said, confusing Crowley. That was not the direction he’d expected this to take. He had been preparing for Aziraphale to say something along the lines of “You asked me why I would comfort a demon and I realised there is no good reason so I’m putting an end to all of this. Goodbye.”

“Oh. That,” Crowley said, having quite a bit of trouble forming words in his surprise, “What about that?”

“Well, they’ve been the source of quite a bit of controversy among humans lately, haven’t they?” Aziraphale chortled slightly. “Did you know then, what you were building them for?”

Crowley wasn’t really sure what to say. It had been such a long time since he’d thought about his life before the Fall, and, other than that moment at Kinclaven Castle, he’d never spoken of it. It was too painful to even think about most of the time, like prodding a bleeding wound. Besides, it’s not like he had anyone to talk about it with. He could imagine it, trying to have a heart-to-heart with Ligur, it was laughable. But Aziraphale, Aziraphale wanted to hear it. So perhaps, he could want to tell it, just this once.

“We had no idea,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale hummed softly, “It’s funny, isn’t it: how so much of the universe was made for humanity, whether they know it or not, and here they are all worried because they aren’t at its physical centre?”

Crowley had to laugh at that. “I suppose I could head over to the Vatican and apologise,” he joked, “So sorry your holiness, but when I was making all these stars, I didn’t know that this wet rock was going to be so important, please do us all a favour and get over it.”

That made Aziraphale laugh so hard he slid slightly down the dome, which only made Crowley laugh harder. Aziraphale took some steadying breaths and spoke.

“I’m going to miss it here. It’s been quite nice to get to know Galileo, and to learn so much about the stars and planets. But I’m supposed to go back to London soon, apparently there are a few blessings in order.” He sighed.

Crowley watched Aziraphale look up at the stars, the way the stars reflected the twinkle in his eyes right back at him was almost too much for Crowley. The idea that Aziraphale liked something he’d made this much was intoxicating. He could have pulled out a coin and miracled it into doing what he wanted, but just this once, he thought it might be worth trying something different.

“I’ll get London for you,” Crowley said, “I have to be there soon anyway.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale looked surprised, he’d certainly been expecting a coin toss.

“Yeah, s’no trouble,” Crowley said.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said genuinely.

“S’no trouble,” Crowley repeated both to Aziraphale and the night.


	2. Home Away From Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, it’s a short interaction.

1649 Outside Westminster Palace

Aziraphale processed the day’s events in the same way he processed everything, with a good meal. In reality, he needed to process a great deal more than the events of one day. There was the beheading of the king, which had been deeply disturbing, this new Lord Protector business, which didn’t seem much better than having a king, and now all these new laws. Banning Christmas . . . that definitely seemed a touch over the top.

He polished off his pasty and got ready to leave, almost - but not quite – missing the dark figure that leaned carelessly against the wall down the alley beside the bakery. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s irritation, and even if he couldn’t, the set of Crowley’s shoulders was unmistakeable. He seemed to be mouthing curse words in the direction of the palace.

“Well this sucks.” Crowley said as Aziraphale approached, still looking at Westminster with distaste

“It’s better than them being at war, Crowley.” Aziraphale said

“Is it, though? I mean, I figured if you wanted to deal with all these rules, no parties, no Christmas, no dancing, no plays –“ Crowley listed.

“I get the point,” Aziraphale cut him off.

“I mean, why not just outright say they’re banning fun?” Crowley asked, taking himself off the wall and beginning to pace with acrimony.

“They’re banning sinning, it’s possible to have fun without all that.” Aziraphale said, thinking of cosy reading nooks and bakeries.

“Oh is it now? Then why not just head on back upstairs? Or is this the whole plan, make it ‘on Earth as it is in Heaven’?” Crowley said venomously.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale found himself hoping this conversation would end.

“Really? I thought you were smarter than that.” Crowley said, the bite in his voice growing.

“Smart enough that I don’t see a problem with this. It’s good that people are starting to take on a more Heavenly lifestyle,” Aziraphale said with finality, he was certainly going to be mentioning that in his report when he got around to it.

“Oh yes, sso Good. They sshould be thanking you for your influence.” He mocked before his features shifted into a snarl. “This iss pathetic,”

“Well if I’m so pathetic, why come over? Why talk to me at all?” Aziraphale asked the question he’d been wondering for so long now.

“I didn’t mean- You know what, fine. It’sss whatever. I have to be in Russia soon, heard you did too, you have some exiled merchantss to blesss or ssomething.” Crowley changed to topic, still clearly angry.

“Well,” Aziraphale said with a sniff, “you heard correctly.” This was what interactions with demons were supposed to be like, Aziraphale thought. They were supposed to be awful. So why did this make Aziraphale feel so terrible? Was this Crowley showing his true colours? He hoped not.

“Tosss you for it?” Crowley said, pulling a coin from his purse in one fluid motion.

“Heads.” Aziraphale replied almost automatically. Not sure what to think of their Arrangement still being on, even with this happening. This is what you told yourself it was, he thought to himself, its only business, nothing more. Centuries of shared meals and jokes disagreed, but Aziraphale ignored them.

“Fuck,” Crowley said. It was heads. “Enjoy your boring home away from home.”

Aziraphale watched Crowley flounce away, anger seeming to roll off him in waves. Aziraphale turned away too, unsure why he suddenly felt to small.

Crowley walked away, his mood darkening. Going to Russia, the land of perpetual cold, was bad enough. But this. It was everything he hated. Not about Aziraphale, he couldn’t bring himself to hate Aziraphale, but Heaven. Heaven he had hated for a long time. That cold, sterile apathy that angels seemed to think masqueraded for love made Crowley wasn’t to scream. And he had. True, he hadn’t hated humans like Lucifer had, but he’d chosen his side in the War in Heaven for a reason. They’d all been so sure, that with a big enough demonstration, the Almighty would change Her mind, She’d see that She was wrong about Heaven and Earth.

But they’d been wrong about Her. And it seemed like, despite the shred of hope that he was holding onto with all his might, he could be wrong about Aziraphale.


	3. I Could Be Convinced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also sorry my updates have gotten a bit out of hand, I’ve been admitted to hospital (I should recover OK, one of my medications tried to kill me and I have since stopped taking it)

25th of December 1660 Whitehall Palace, London

The first Christmas in 11 years was always bound to be spectacular. But few had been prepared for just how spectacular it was. Charles II, the merry monarch, had thrown out all the stops. By even the most extravagant of standards, the party was overly gaudy, but no one would have it any other way. The past 11 Christmases had been help in cellars or the back rooms of houses for fear that the justices of the peace would knock on the front door and they’d be forced to spend New Years in gaol. Or worse.

The fast change was enough to give anyone whiplash, the Court had gone from being excessively dull to plain old excessive. And the retinue Charles II had brought with him was certainly more interesting than any of the puritans Cromwell had kept the company of.

It was the exact sort of place that was rife with potential temptations. Crowley wound his way through the crowds at the feast, keeping a mental list of all the deeds that would be done tonight that he could take credit for. He was engaged in a particularly notable conversation with an Italian woman who dressed in men’s clothes and flirted shamelessly with men, women, and demons alike when he saw Aziraphale at the other end of the table.

11 years was not a particularly long time when one had been alive for 5664 years since anyone bothered to start counting. But it had felt so much longer without his regular correspondence with Aziraphale. He knew that he had the power to resume it, he could have been the one to send the letter first, but if Aziraphale chose to ignore it . . . He wasn’t sure he could handle that rejection. He did his best to ignore Aziraphale, staying near his own end of the table, and if he felt like he’d swallowed a lead weight that had made its home in the pit of his stomach then he was just going to have to wait for it to go away. He’d just have to avoid looking back down the table.

But it seemed the weight in Crowley’s stomach was making itself a comfortable home there, and whether he glanced back at Aziraphale or not, it continued to gnaw at him. Finally he sidled down the table to where Aziraphale sat. It was at this point that he realised he hadn’t thought of anything to say.

“Long time no see,” he said, knowing full well that wasn’t up to his usual par of conversation starters.

“Well, I’ve been rather busy,” Aziraphale said coolly.

“Look,” Crowley said, “I-I know I was out of line last time we spoke. Whatever you feel about Heaven is your business, regardless of what I think.” He just hoped Aziraphale would see it for the apology it was. He hated apologising, the words ‘I’m sorry’ were like chewing on brimstone (and Crowley was unfortunate enough to know that from first-hand experience).

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched. Not in a mischievous way, but sadly, like he was holding back a sigh. “What do you want, Crowley?”

“I’m not just-“ Crowley spluttered. In truth, he did want something, he wanted his friend back. He knew that, when it came to Aziraphale, he took and he took and he took whatever his angel was willing to give. He didn’t do so well when Aziraphale started taking things back. Sure, in the back of his mind he would always wish that Aziraphale could love him, but he could live with friends, he could like being friends. He couldn’t be enemies, not with Aziraphale.

“You wanna know what I want?” Crowley tried again.

“I did ask,” Aziraphale said, still looking like he was about to sigh.

“I want more wine,” Crowley said loudly, gesturing at a servant, “you?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together for a moment before replying, “I could be convinced,” he said.

The servant, smart enough to know when to pour generously and when not to, filled both goblets to the brim with a steady hand. From there it did not take long for both of them to become utterly sloshed.

“. . . and then,” Aziraphale said with a significant degree of effort, “they tried to burn me at the stake!”

“How rude,” Crowley said, or tried to say anyway.

“Exactly.” Aziraphale spoke as if that solved the matter.

“They should’ve grown out of that sort of thing by now,” Crowley said, making a mental note, despite his drunken state, to never leave Aziraphale to his own devices ever again, regardless of any fights they may have had. “I mean I popped over to Ame, Aremi . . .” Words were hard, “Over the Atlantic for a bit, didn’t even need to, by the way, they were doing just fine without me,” he garbled.

Aziraphale tried to nod, Crowley got the message, but nobody else would have been able to.

A great darkness fell over the hall and Crowley and Aziraphale realised the servants were packing up. It took real skill to outdrink King Charles II, but they’d pulled it off.

“Should probably sober up,” Crowley said when he realised that, in order to go anywhere, he would need the use of his limbs.

Aziraphale did his approximation of a nod again and they managed to get the alcohol out of their systems. The servants were more than surprised to find several barrels, bottles, and jugs full when they would have sworn they were empty.

Crowley immediately regretted his decision to sober up. It was so much easier to be around Aziraphale when he didn’t have to think about the reality of their situation. He searched his way back through his drunken memories, making certain that he hadn’t said or done anything that would make things worse. He hadn’t, at least as much as he could remember.

Aziraphale offered Crowley a smile, a real one, that Crowley latched onto with gusto.

“You gonna be here long?” he asked Aziraphale.

“Probably not,” Aziraphale admitted, “I have to head North to bless the Treaty of Copenhagen.”

Crowley shivered thinking about it, “I get that,” he said, “I’m supposed to stir up dissent in the French soldiers stationed in Sweden.”

“What are you planning to do?” Aziraphale said, the twinkle in his eyes returning, “Complain about the weather at them until they start rioting?”

“S’probably what’ll end up happening,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale peered over at Crowley, like he was assessing the content of a book before sighing. “We can toss for it, if you like,” Aziraphale offered, pulling out a coin.

“Tails,” Crowley said. And tails it was.

But Aziraphale didn’t move except to put the coin back in his purse. They continued to sit in the darkness of the now-empty great hall.

“You’re still mad at me,” Crowley said, his tongue feeling like a lead weight in his mouth.

“I’m more mad at myself,” Aziraphale replied, “It’s far too easy to forget where we stand in all this,” he gestured around, “and I’m supposed to know better enough to remember.”

Crowley wanted to pretend he didn’t know what Aziraphale was talking about. To pretend that it was just fine for them to keep playing at being people, being friends, who didn’t have to worry about being on opposing sides of a Holy war. He wanted to pretend that Aziraphale hadn’t seen the things he’d done. He said nothing and tried to push away his urge to beg Aziraphale to stay. To beg for more letters, more stolen moments on rooftops.

He could feel his already broken heart take yet another blow. But that was the thing, if there was one thing Crowley’s heart could do, it was survive a beating.


	4. He Had Missed Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news everyone! I was discharged just in time to celebrate Halloween!! The bad news is that my liver failed, but its getting better so we should now be returning to your regularly scheduled gay shenanigans.

1709 Dublin, Ireland

Aziraphale was doing his best to look proper and respectable and not like an angel who was definitely sulking as his boss spoke.

“. . . and, of course, we love all of the Almighty’s creations,” Gabriel said with a tight smile, “but there are times when we have to put that aside in the name of Her plan. This weather is not something we can allow you to intervene in. I mean, really, Aziraphale, you’ve been on Earth how long? Five and a half thousand years?”

“Five thousand seven hundred and thirteen,” Aziraphale said softly.

“You should know the drill by now.”

“Of course, I was just-“ Aziraphale cut himself off. If he asked whether or not he could try to create frost-resistant crops for these people and Gabriel said no, then if he did it, it would be going directly against orders. But if he didn’t ask, then they couldn’t forbid it. “As you say, Gabriel.”

“Excellent!” Gabriel said woodenly before straightening up and sniffing. Aziraphale felt it too.

Generally, angels and demons were not supposed to be able to sense the other’s power. Presence, sure, but power? Not so much. Aziraphale had quickly realised that the main thing preventing Gabriel and the others from sensing demonic miracles was that they didn’t believe they could. But this, this had been big enough that anyone would have felt it. Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised if several wise-women and spiritualists went running out of their houses looking around for some kind of terror.

Aziraphale opened his senses out to see what had caused it. Unable to quell his panic that an army of demons had chosen to rise up and attack. But what he found was not an army of demons, it was the familiar smoky, spiced smell of Crowley. It reminded him of a drink he had tried in the Caribbean, smoky and spiced with just a faint hint of crisp apples.

“Aziraphale” Gabriel ordered, “Whatever that is . . .”

“I’ll take care of it,” Aziraphale promised.

“Good.” Gabriel vanished.

The pull of Crowley’s power seemed to converge on a small bush. Aziraphale, figuring that Heaven wouldn’t begrudge him the power drain of teleportation for this, appeared right next to it. The influx of demonic power was waning, which was either very good or very bad, he’d have to investigate further to find out which.

Aziraphale pulled the spindly branches aside and saw her. It was definitely Crowley, eyeglasses and all, in human form, but she had curled so tightly around herself that he wasn’t sure where any of her limbs began or ended. She didn’t look entirely conscious.

Aziraphale’s original scrolls of Pliny the Elder’s _Natural History_ were not only for decoration. He had, in fact, read them enough that he could recite his favourite passages by heart. He was aware that serpents were cold-blooded and could not regulate their body temperatures, but he had always assumed that Crowley’s corporation, being human shaped, could thermoregulate as humans did, Aziraphale had certainly never had any such problems with his own corporation.

“Crowley?” He said, hoping she would be able to hear him. If she did, she made no response.

Aziraphale reached his hand skyward, about to pull power down from Heaven when he stopped himself. If Heaven ever found out that he’d used the power to heal a demon . . . And even if they didn’t, he’d still know what he’d done. Could he justify it?

He tried to tell himself to walk away. That a demon’s suffering was supposed to be good, in the grand scheme of things. But he couldn’t. 60 years without a letter from Crowley had made it easier for him to pretend that anything they had ever been to each other was nothing more than a lapse of judgement on his part. The Arrangement was still in place, but only because it suited Aziraphale and not because it meant anything.

And perhaps, if it had been some other demon, he could have just walked away. But it was Crowley. Crowley hadn’t just left him when he’d wiped himself out from healing in 1517. Crowley had never once left him for dead. It begged the question: which of them was the angel and which the demon?

Besides, he told himself, didn’t I promise Gabriel to ‘take care of it’?

He reached down and lifted Crowley up with ease, pulling power to try and warm her faster

“Angel?” She mumbled so softly human ears wouldn’t have been able to pick it up.

“Yes, my dear?” He whispered back. She didn’t reply, but Crowley’s corporation began to change slightly. Back to man-shaped rather than woman-shaped (neither of those terms meant all that much to Crowley). The clothing changed as well, particularly helpful, as panniers made carrying him rather cumbersome.

Aziraphale found his way to his lodgings, a rather bare flat that he was renting. He was beginning to get very tired of having to move all of his earthly belongings whenever he went anywhere, even miracles could only help so much, and he was not about to try storing any of it in Heaven.

He placed Crowley gingerly on a French chaise longue (the original owner had brought it over from France but when he had fallen in love and married an Irish girl there simply hadn’t been room for it and Aziraphale just miraculously happened to be nearby) and looked at him closely. He clearly had access to his demonic powers based on the amount he’d pulled earlier, and he hadn’t wiped them out because he’d been able to change his form. It had to be the cold that was bothering him so. Aziraphale just couldn’t believe weather was enough to do this to him.

He summoned his own power from Above. Not an enormous surge like Crowley had done, just a small trickle, hopefully enough to warm him up slowly. He remembered reading somewhere that it had to happen slowly in order to avoid thermal shock.

With his eyes closed, only the serpentine tattoo in front of Crowley’s ear was any sign that he was anything other than innocent about him. His red curls were falling artlessly out of place, with small snowflakes still stuck to them. His corporation breathed slowly, far more slowly than any human was able to, but Aziraphale took great comfort from these slow breaths, it meant Crowley’s body kept his habits even when Crowley himself wasn’t able to see to them. His skin was losing some of its pallor as he warmed up, but it was still striking against his all-black ensemble. Aziraphale drank it all in, the hollow at his throat which moved slightly every now and then, as if, even in his sleep, Crowley wanted to speak.

By the time Aziraphale realised he’d been staring the sun had gone down. He lit an oil lamp and reached for a book; any would do. After all, if Crowley woke up to find Aziraphale staring at him he’d certainly ask why. It was better to seem to be reading because Aziraphale didn’t have an answer.

When morning came Aziraphale began to worry again, surely, Crowley should have woken up by now. He wasn’t sure he could stomach the idea of Crowley dying, even if it wasn’t permanent, Hell could certainly make obtaining a new corporation as difficult as Heaven did, if not worse. It could be ages before he saw Crowley again.

This was not a direction of worry that Aziraphale wanted to take, but it was like he was riding an out of control horse, he had no choice about where his mind took him and it was getting ready to force him to acknowledge some uncomfortable truths:

He had missed Crowley desperately. Dining out and seeing plays became slightly lacklustre without the company. But more than anything he missed the conversation, Crowley was the only other being who understood Earth like he did, who had the same complaints about their bosses, who cared about Aziraphale’s opinion on anything. Unless it was a report the angels never seemed to want to hear from him.

Aziraphale still continued to worry, it would take more than such a revelation to get him to stop. He was certain that Crowley ought to have been able to prevent this, after all, He’d been in Russia 60 years ago? But what if, a nasty part of Aziraphale’s mind whispered insidiously, What if he didn’t want to heal himself?

Aziraphale tried to push that thought away but he could still remember how hopeless Crowley had looked at Kimbolton Castle all those years ago. He felt tears prick at his eyes and he willed them away as best as he could. He couldn’t lose Crowley, not when he was so close to getting him back.

It was at this point that Crowley began to stir properly, which meant that he bolted upright suddenly, his eyeglasses flying off his face, scaring the living daylights out of Aziraphale.

“Angel?” Crowley said, clearly confused.

“Crowley, you’re awake!” Aziraphale exclaimed, blinking back tears of surprise and happiness now,

“I am.” Crowley said, his eyebrows still pulled together and his posture still wound taught. “Where are we?”

“My flat,” Aziraphale said, fighting the urge to fuss over him.

“Yeah. Great. Where’s your flat?”

“You don’t know?”

“The last thing I remember was in London?” He phrased it like a question but clearly didn’t expect Aziraphale to answer, “It was, well,” Crowley closed his eyes, trying to remember, “freezing. Like nothing else. The Thames was completely frozen solid, and its barely water anymore.”

“Goodness,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Anything but.” Crowley retorted before resuming his tale, “I was- I was caught out in a snowstorm,” he furrowed his brow, “and I had to warm myself up because I couldn’t move, so I pulled all the power I could, figured if Hell came to reprimand me I could always warm myself by the fire and brimstone,” he joked feebly. “I just knew I had to get somewhere warm and safe.”

“Well,” Aziraphale replied, “I’m not really sure where to begin. But, my dear, you aren’t in London, we’re in Dublin.”

“Dublin?” Crowley’s serpentine eyes betrayed genuine surprise, “Why would I miracle myself across the Irish sea? It’s even colder here.”

“I have no idea. I was in the area giving a report when you pulled so much power to you, I imagine it could have been felt from Paris.” Aziraphale peered at Crowley, it was rare that he got to see Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley looked away as Aziraphale continued, “Of course, I knew it was you as soon as I inspected the surge, and since I was ordered to go investigate that’s exactly what I did. Though, I did have to use quite a bit of power to warm you up, if heaven asks it was because I was battle whatever Hellbeast came from the surge.”

“You didn’t tell them?” Crowley asked softly.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said, equally quiet.

They looked at each other, blue eyes against amber. The moment stretched out between them until Crowley looked away.

“I should have written to you,” he said.

“And I you, but there’s nothing we can do about that now,” Aziraphale said sensibly, despite feeling anything but.

Crowley stayed one more night on Aziraphale’s chaise longue. Aziraphale insisted that he was welcome to stay for longer, but Crowley had work to do. They both did. They spent the night writing up a report that had Aziraphale battling a Hellbeast that Crowley had let lose to cause chaos. They were both deliberately vague in their description of the beast, in the hopes that Hell wouldn’t notice that none were missing. They both came out of the reports looking rather exceptional to their respective offices.

They delayed even longer when Crowley showed Aziraphale how to make soda bread, which they enjoyed with a thick layer of butter and strawberry and rhubarb jam. But eventually, the bread was reduced to crumbs and Crowley had to leave.

Aziraphale watched Crowley leave with concern, even though he knew what a terrible idea their cohabitation had been. It was quite some time after Crowley had left that he noticed he’d left something behind. He considered racing after Crowley with it, but that was no use.

He needn’t have bothered anyway, as the note on the top read:

_Angel,_

_For your trouble_

_C_

Aziraphale looked at it more closely, the reverse side of the note had Crowley’s London address, and underneath it was what was unmistakably a manuscript. A copy of De Nostri Temporis Studiorum Rationae (On the Study Methods of Our Times) by Giambattista Vico sat in Aziraphale’s hands.


	5. Fancy Seeing You Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to talk a lot about fashion in this because historical fashion is great and I love it. I know I have a problem but I am not going to stop.

_Dear C,_

_I must thank you for the copy of De Nostri Temporis Studiorum Rationae, especially as no one in Britain seems to have a copy yet. Dublin is, of course, lovely now that its thawed. I did mean to ask – Where did you learn to make soda bread? I can’t imagine it’s something you just happened to know._

_Assuming you’re in London when you get this, could I trouble you to do this quick blessing for me: Just spread a bit of goodwill among landlords so they’ll let the German Palatines stay with them after they arrive in London._

_You’ve probably already seen that Mr Rowe has published a complete collection of Shakespeare’s plays including a small biography. There’s no mention of you, but if you would like to peruse it, I would be happy to loan you my copy._

_Sincerely,_

_A_

_P.S. Apparently, I’m to go to Spain next, I’ve enclosed my forwarding address_

_Dear Angel,_

_Blessing done. I might have a bit of a peruse next time I see you, still can’t believe the poor guy managed to die on his own birthday, that’s some rotten luck. I learned soda bread after Wessex from an old Lady in Cork._

_Weather’s managed to pick up in London as well (thank Satan). Work’s been fine, I’ve managed to bring satire back in this part of the world (keep your eye out for a new magazine called the New Atalantis, if you want to see what I mean). Definitely getting a bit bored, though._

_Spain should be nice at this time of year, looks like they avoided ‘the Great Frost’ as people have been calling it (they aren’t wrong). Though they’re definitely having a decent bit of conflict after Carlos II died. If Hell asks, I’m responsible for him. Definitely can’t blame anyone for not wanting to sleep with him. Anyway, if anything particularly awful happens, do let me know so I can add it to my next report. You know the drill._

_Best,_

_C_

* * *

_Dearest C,_

_It appears that I am finally returning to London. I don’t need to tell you how much of a relief that will be. The New World has managed to work itself into quite a state, and the Native Americans seem to be bearing the worst of it. You were on the money with your comparison to Rome._

_Naturally, I haven’t received any word from Upstairs about Spain, I keep trying to tell them that I did my best. They just all go so inter-married that it was impossible to come up with a real solution. And I guarantee you that they have learned nothing and will keep doing it._

_I tried something here called corn on the cob. I’ve never heard of humans eating corn before coming to the Americas, but I think they really should. Its sweet and filling and it can be used to make all sorts of interesting concoctions, not unlike wheat._

_Since your last letter was so recent, I will assume your address is still the same, if it has changed then I will be at the Woodford Green Friary, though don’t worry about trying to visit, it is consecrated and I can always seek you out._

_Yours,_

_A_

1742 London

Crowley read Aziraphale’s letter over and over, committing every element of it to memory before burning it in her fireplace. She would see Aziraphale soon, not eventually, not in a few years, but the real kind of soon.

She pulled her banyan off and began to dress properly. She’d been thrilled when people had finally caught onto the idea of comfortable clothing one could wear while at home, she certainly hoped it would take off. Crowley miracled herself into her stays, it was so much easier than doing all that spiral lacing over and over again. Next came the pannier, a garment Crowley was rather proud of having invented, it made getting through doors frontways near impossible and people still wore them in the name of fashion. The black and red brocade robe volante followed. She left it there, her stays were decorative enough that no stomacher was needed and if it happened to be a bit inappropriate, she was a demon, inappropriate was practically her duty.

She made a point of sitting down in her lodging and looking busy. Crowley had built herself a reputation as a wealthy widow who had inherited her house in Charring Cross from her late husband. She also encouraged the rumour that she had killed this fictitious husband. Her neighbours were both intrigued by her and healthily afraid of her, which was exactly how she liked it.

There was a knock at the door and she fought back a grin. She made her way over to the door (giving her pannier an angry glance as it nearly tripped her) and opened it.

“Hello, angel, fancy seeing you here,” she said, a reminder of their meeting in Rome.

“You did invite me,” Aziraphale replied primly.

“That’s not the- ugh. Come inside.” He really was infuriating sometimes.

They made their way to Crowley’s sitting room. It was a sitting room in the most accurate sense of the word as the only furniture in it was two chairs.

“Oh no!” Aziraphale said as he sat down, making Crowley jump up in panic. Were the angels coming? Had they been found out?

“I forgot to bring you the book!” Aziraphale said as though it were the greatest catastrophe in history.

“The book?” Crowley repeated back incredulously.

“Rowe’s Shakespeare collection, I said I’d bring it with me next time we saw one another! Oh my dear fellow I am so sorry,” Aziraphale said, still ready to frame this as a great tragedy.

“You’re freaking out because you forgot a book?” Crowley said, enunciating every syllable with care.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, having the decency to look a little cowed, “I said I’d bring it to you, I don’t want you to think I make empty promises.”

“Angel, it’s fine. Really.” Crowley tried to hammer the point home.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked, still sounding sad.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Crowley sighed, “besides, we might not have had time for it. The composer, whatsisname – Handel - is doing a little performance at Covent Garden, I was thinking we might head on over, check it out.”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Aziraphale sighed.

“And I hear there’s a lovely little café on the way, a French family opened it just this month,” Crowley added. This was tempting, this was what she did, but it was so much better when it was Aziraphale, when she got to bask in his presence while he did everything.

“A café?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah, they’re all the rage in France apparently,” she said, preparing for the last piece, the one that would convince him, “besides, I owe you for Dublin.”

“Alright then,” Aziraphale smiled.

They were rather early for the performance, so they decided to take a stroll down to St James Park. It had opened some time earlier in 1603, but Crowley and Aziraphale had been so pushed about Europe with work since it’s opening, this was their first time they’d had the opportunity to see it together. Crowley lead the way, having attended a few parties here during the reign of Charles II.

“It’s quite lovely, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, gesturing around at the park and lake.

Crowley just nodded.

“It’s nice that they can still cultivate greenery even in busy cities,” Aziraphale continued.

“It’d be a good place to meet,” Crowley said, looking at Aziraphale, “all of London converges right here, it’d be pure coincidence that we were both in it at the same time.”

“Entirely coincidental,” Aziraphale nodded.

“And as far as these humans are concerned, we’re just two people, having a conversation, just like them,” Crowley smiled at the thought.

“Just two humans going for a stroll in the park before seeing a show,” Aziraphale smiled back, “I quite like that.”

There was once a time where both Crowley and Aziraphale had been frustrated with humanity’s tendency to rewrite history, to change what had once been. That time had passed so long ago that they both remembered it with some degree of embarrassment, after all, putting a slightly biased spin on things wasn’t unique to humanity, they did it all the time on their reports. The first two parts of Handel’s _Messiah_ was not even close to accurate. Not even a little bit. But the music was splendid and with such a small orchestra and choral group, the entire experience was marvellous.

Part three, left quite a bit to be desired. It depicted the end of the world as a pleasant affair with angels and Jesus all singing happily together. It was a nice picture, sure, but Crowley and Aziraphale both knew the real thing would be much bloodier. Of course, it was ages away, humanity was only just getting started, they weren’t going to shut down God’s big project any time soon.


	6. They Rolled Their Eyes in Unison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short, I can’t let Aziraphale spend too long in Paris because he has to forget how to speak French in 10 years time

_Dear Angel, _

_Just got a warning to expect angelic intervention over here with the peace treaty. Does that mean I’ll be seeing you soon? _

_Yours,_

_C_

September 1783 Paris

Aziraphale was rather looking forward to seeing Paris again. It had been for too long. The city had seen better days, the rich were doing alright for themselves but the poor . . . It was sad to watch. Everything they had was theirs only by chance, they got new clothes when they were lucky enough to find a scrap of fabric, they got food to eat when they managed to steal some from a rich man’s table. It had to be difficult for them.

From inside Versailles there was no sign of the struggling people outside. The castle was as resplendent and opulent as ever, more so than ever before. The ceiling was gilded with 24 carat gold, the hall of mirrors lined with expensive silver over glass. It was decadent to the point of being almost tasteless even by Aziraphale’s standards.

It was a common enough myth that the occult and demonic forces of the world were somehow affected by silver, but Aziraphale knew it to be false. The evidence, after all, was right in front of him. He looked around at the mirrors as hundreds of Crowley’s sauntered towards him.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley said cheerfully.

“You sound awfully pleased with yourself,” Aziraphale replied, not turning around to look at the real Crowley, but instead choosing to look at one of the reflected Crowley’s that surrounded him.

“Yeah, well, this is the easiest job they’ve given me in a long time, there are so many countries involved in the whole ‘American Revolution’ that no one’s going to be entirely happy no matter what they agree on,” Crowley said idly.

“Well, that doesn’t bode well for me,” Aziraphale replied.

“Why not?” Crowley said, “if everyone isn’t happy then that means they’ve all ‘learned about compromise’, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said, not convinced.

“Everything is just a matter of framing,” Crowley said, making a frame out of his thumbs and forefingers. “Besides, the food here is really good, you should come try some instead of trying to find some way to make this ,” he gestured to the door where a cacophony of angry yelling echoed out, “all Holy. The humans will sort it out, and we’ll be here if they don’t.”

Aziraphale sighed, “I suppose you have a point,” he said, “I’m only supposed to pop across anyway, they want me back in London by the end of the week.”

“What were you supposed to get done in one week?” Crowley asked, his tone making it clear just how stupid he thought that was.

“Search me,” Aziraphale replied, “I suppose they were thinking I could talk the American congress out of legalising slavery and somehow make King George invite General Washington over for tea.”

Crowley snorted, “not forgetting to feed the starving people of Paris while you’re at it.”

They rolled their eyes in unison. Bosses really had no idea what it was like to actually do any work.

“Do you know if you’ll be back in London anytime soon?” Aziraphale asked as they sat down to eat.

“I doubt it. There’s so much anger in the air here, they’ll want me to stay until France combusts or something. You?”

“I’ve noticed they’ve been keeping me in London most of the time lately and well, I had this idea. It’s quite foolish really,” Aziraphale said

“What is it?” Crowley said, and he just sounded so genuinely curious. He was probably the only being Aziraphale could ever voice his idea to without being told how very stupid it was.

“I was thinking about opening a bookshop.”


	7. This Doesn’t Bode Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Australia chapter because I’m Australian

1788 Botany Bay, Sydney, Australia

“This doesn’t bode well,” Aziraphale said, looking out at the ships docking in the bay. Australia had always been the most untouched of the countries She’d made, the indigenous people had chosen not to build cities, but instead to live nomadically, their protection being the large expanse of sea that surrounded the island.

“Hm yeah, you were there last time,” Crowley replied, hanging off a eucalyptus tree near Aziraphale’s ear.

“Last time?” Aziraphale was confused.

“In America.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said darkly, “yes.”

“S’pose they could get it right this time,” Crowley said, hopping down from his perch to stand beside Aziraphale.

“I admire your optimism,” Aziraphale replied carefully.

“That’s just your way of saying you don’t think so,” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale hummed. Neither of them had ever had much opportunity to travel this far from Europe and the Near East, since their responsibilities tended to keep them in areas where Christianity was the dominant religion. Aziraphale had made a point to travel down the Silk Road every now and then for the cuisine, but if Gabriel asked, he hadn’t left Europe in centuries.

“Why’ve your lot sent you here?” Crowley asked, breaking the silence that was beginning to settle between the two.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Aziraphale replied, his lips pursed, “I think it’s a bit like them sending me to the Americas, they just sort of want me to watch. You?”

“Same here,” Crowley said, “Don’t really fancy it though. Toss you for it?”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Aziraphale grinned, “Tails.”

Crowley tossed a coin and swore. “Fuck. Tails.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley his most angelic smile.

“Bastard,” Crowley said before changing the topic, “How’s the bookshop going?”

Aziraphale was surprised he’d remembered, “Oh, I’m still looking at properties. There’s an awful lot of paperwork that goes into purchasing a retail space.”

“I’m not surprised, humans seem to like making things difficult for themselves, Diogenes saw it coming from a mile off.” Crowley smiled a bit in memory of his friend.

“He did indeed,” Aziraphale replied thinking smugly of his collections of works inspired by the philosopher.

“You gonna be good to get back?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t fancy taking years to travel by sea, but they’ve really started cracking down on travel miracles,”

“You’re in Australia! If you can’t miracle yourself out of here what’s the blessed point of miracles?’ Crowley said, scaring several cockatoos.

“I can’t just pull that kind of power without an explanation,”

“Just make something up! S’what I do. I tell them you showed up and we had to do glorious battle or something.”

“You tell them what?”

“It’s a good way to keep them scared of you, keeps Milan in their minds,”

“If you say so,” Aziraphale said, making a sceptical face.

They watched as people exited the boats, many of them bound by iron chains that chafed and pinched their skin. They could hear the crack of whips and knew that, if anything, this was going to be worse than America.

“You could always try it,” Crowley suggested, “tell them you saw me here from a distance and pulled the power to send me back to the hellish realm from whence I came,” Crowley finished mockingly.

“It’s better than spending a year on a boat,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Just do it, it’ll be fine,” Crowley insisted.

“Are you sure, will you be alright here?”

“’Course I will, weather’s nice at least. Plus, I think the Almighty put the snakes that look like me here,” Crowley said flippantly.

“That rings a bell,” Aziraphale replied before turning to look at the horizon. He winced. The convicts and soldiers were already digging up the lad and installing buildings, marring the land such that it would never be the same. He turned back to Crowley. “I might go back now, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley replied, thanking Satan that Aziraphale had no idea just how true his statement was.


	8. The Crêpes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so my grandma is French and I get it. I have literally gotten up before dawn on Bastille Day to drive to her house so I can eat the crêpes she makes. And yea, my strong association with french food and home and family is why Aziraphale smells like brioche.

1793 Paris

“Dressed like that, he’s asking for trouble. What’s for lunch?”

“What would you say to some crêpes?”

Crowley let himself be led out of the Bastille by Aziraphale. It wasn’t like the other times when he’d felt Aziraphale’s power and come racing over. This was different. What he’d felt was Aziraphale, it was undeniably Aziraphale, but it wasn’t his power. He’d been settling in for a nap after Hastur’s visit when he’d felt it. Flashes of fear and frustration, the kind that told him which humans were ripe for tempting, but it was different to a human, better somehow. As soon as he’d identified the warm, sweet, bakery smell that followed Aziraphale everywhere, he’d jumped out of bed and followed it. His heart had lurched when he’d seen that it was leading him to the Bastille. Surely, he’d thought, surely Aziraphale was smarter than to end up in there. He’d never understand how Aziraphale managed to be so knowledgeable about some things and so utterly stupid about others.

And then he’d arrived. Had he imagined it? The way Aziraphale’s eyes had widened as he’d spoken his name. Crowley knew he was pushing things as it was, running into each other a couple of times a century was already so much, but he couldn’t seem to stay away.

Crowley pulled himself out of his reverie long enough to realise that Aziraphale was taking them both further into Paris, it would not be long before they passed the Galleries du Lafayette and Aziraphale would be forces to look at the wax death masks and morbid figured displayed by Madame Tussaud.

“Angel, Paris has changed a lot since you were last here, maybe let me-?

“Oh, erm, of course. Where should we go?” Aziraphale replied.

That made Crowley pause. He tried to rack his brains for somewhere that would still be open and selling crêpes, some place that might have escaped the notice of Robespierre and his crew. They ended up walking to Boulogne-sur-Seine, a town just outside of Paris. Neither one dared try calling for a carriage so this took quite some time. Crowley was relieved to find the small café that he was thinking of, and they were seated by the window.

“You know,” Crowley said, “I wonder why you picked London to settle in of all places.”

“Habit, I suppose,” Aziraphale replied, his eyes fixed on the kitchen.

“Well, I knew it wasn’t the food,” Crowley smirked.

“It’s getting better,” Aziraphale said, disappointment flickering across his face as another table was served.

“Sure,” said Crowley, not remotely convinced. “I can’t believe England had the gall to invade half the planet for spices and still not use any of them in their cooking.”

“You exaggerate,” Aziraphale replied, beaming as a flaming crêpe was set down before him.

“Merci, citoyenne,” Crowley said, before Aziraphale could get himself locked up again by calling the server ‘mademoiselle’.

Aziraphale tucked into his crêpes suzette with great enthusiasm, while Crowley picked at his. It was so much more entertaining to watch Aziraphale eat than it was to actually eat, at least in Crowley’s opinion. He clearly enjoyed every bite. Crowley was certain his existence alone had to be some kind of blessing to chefs.

He pushed his own plate over to Aziraphale as soon as Aziraphale’s plate was clear.

“Are you sure, dear boy,” Aziraphale asked.

“Positive. You’ll enjoy it more than I will, anyway.”

Not needing to be told twice, Aziraphale launched into enjoying Crowley’s crêpe.

Once they were done and the meal paid for, Crowley and Aziraphale walked down by the Seine, in the direction away from Paris.

“Do you think you’ll be here much longer?” Aziraphale asked, in a tone that had Crowley’s rapt attention.

“Not sure,” he replied, trying to sound casual, “At least until this has gotten as bad as it possibly can.”

“Quite soon then,” Aziraphale said primly.

“I doubt it,” Crowley said, knowing the worst was yet to come.

“Well, do let me know when you come back. I’ve narrowed down the bookshop to a few final places and I’d like to hear your opinion,” Aziraphale said.

“My opinion?” Crowley said, sure his demonically enhanced hearing was failing him somehow.

“Well, I know we have some differences in out aesthetic sensibilities,” Aziraphale said, misjudging Crowley’s reaction, “but should you be in London I would be very grateful-“

“No, yeah, of course,” Crowley said, “I’d love to see it.”

“Oh, really,” said Aziraphale in a hopeful tone that made Crowley’s insides feel like they’d turned to goo.

“’Course,” Crowley said, looking away.

“Anyway, what’s your address here, I’ll write to you regardless,” Aziraphale said and Crowley had to fight back the goofy smile that threatened to appear on his face with everything he had.


	9. You Are Incorrigible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place after the 1800 deleted scene which can be found as an incredible animatic by Carrie LeBlanc Art here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x46kqU7_g1E

1800 Soho, London

Ordinarily, when a demon is pleased to the point where they walk around London with a smile on their face, it would because something truly horrible has taken place, like a mass murder or the invention of women’s clothing without pockets. But not in this case. In this case, the thing that had Crowley ambling through London like he’d just won the lottery, was Aziraphale.

He’d done it, he’d tricked the Archangel Gabriel into keeping Aziraphale on Earth. Aziraphale could stay and smile serenely at his little bookshop and make truly obscene noises when he ate particularly good food and find ways to incorporate tartan into everything he wore.

Crowley had arrived back in London some months earlier and had begun something of a new tradition. He knew he couldn’t just walk into Aziraphale’s new shop without an excuse, but as long as he had one it was fine, right? He was staying in his old house in Charring Cross (though no longer as a widow) so it was easy enough for him to head over to Soho for one reason or another.

This, surely, called for a celebration. He waited until the angels had left, their saccharine scent fortunately going with them, and he entered the shop, the chocolates he had brought with them still in hand.

“Angel?” He said to Aziraphale’s back.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley really hoped he wasn’t imagining the happiness in his voice. “I have had the most unusual day; I don’t suppose you had anything to do with it?”

“Might’ve done,” Crowley said, holding the box of chocolates out to Aziraphale enticingly.

Aziraphale accepted the chocolates, they were still a relatively new invention in Europe, and it was still some time before any humans would think to add alkaline salts to them to reduce their bitterness, but Aziraphale still adored them. Crowley watched him lick the melted chocolate off his index finger and thumb before remembering how to speak again.

“You,” Aziraphale said, “are incorrigible.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, tossing another one of his crooked smiles to the angel.

“I’m not sure I meant it as a compliment,” Aziraphale replied.

“Doesn’t matter, I’m taking it as one.” Crowley paused, he sunk back into one of Aziraphale’s wooden chairs. He was tired, exhausted really. The French Revolution and rise of Napoleon had gotten him a lot of credit in Hell, enough that he could probably get away with a decent rest. A real one. But he was reluctant to take the opportunity. Not when he knew Aziraphale was stupid enough to get himself locked in the Bastille. But that had been because he couldn’t use miracles, Crowley reminded himself, it looks like Aziraphale is back in Heaven’s good books (not that they have any other kind). He sighed. “Angel?” He asked.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, looking up from his ledger.

“After the opening,” Crowley spoke slowly, unsure how best get his point across, “I’m going to need to have a nap.”

“You don’t need to nap, Crowley, we don’t need to sleep,” Aziraphale replied.

“Fine, I want to sleep because I’m exhausted after France, happy?” When Aziraphale only pursed his lips in response, Crowley continued, “I’m just warning you, that I might be asleep for a long time, last time it was 25 years.”

“Wasn’t that during the Spanish Inquisition you supposedly invented?”

“Yeah. And I’m even more tired than I was then so I might be, er, out for a while. Just making sure you know-“

“I’m sure everything will be quite alright,” Aziraphale said, much to Crowley’s relief because he was definitely going to say something bordering on sappy.

“Right,” Crowley said, “if you’re sure.”

In the days that followed Crowley was sure to bring something by. The shop every day, soaking up Aziraphale’s presence while he could. Even on Friday, when Aziraphale had been so busy with the business of opening the bookshop, Crowley had made sure to stop by one everything was over in order to share a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and a stroll down St James Park.

The park made for a nice change of pace, while the rest of London changed as quickly as the humans were capable, St James Park remained unchanged, just as green and idyllic as ever.

“Any idea how-how long you’ll be gone for?” Aziraphale asked.

“No,” Crowley said, wincing a bit, “I can never tell in advance. Guess I’ll find out when I wake up,” he said, injecting some bravado.

Aziraphale hummed in response. They continued some way down the park before either of them spoke again, and to both of their surprise it was Aziraphale who broke it.

“Do let me know when you wake up,” he said, “I should be easy enough to find now, with the bookshop.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, thinking of the last time he’d woken up from a long nap. He’d destroyed Hell’s file on Aziraphale last time. He hoped it wouldn’t come to anything like that again. “Walk you back to the shop?”

“Thank you, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said and they returned to the bookshop, which despite being so new to them both was cementing itself in their lives.


	10. What he had to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW graphic depictions of dream violence. Like really graphic, if you want to avoid it, feel free to skip the dream and go right to 1862.
> 
> I’m using he/him pronouns for Crowley in this chapter but in Enochian (the language of angels) and its corrupted infernal dialect (the language spoken in Hell, and the language Crowley would be thinking in) pronouns are gender neutral as the language was created before gender and sex.

Crowley was Falling. He could feel all of it, the sulphur burning at his skin, the smell of Holy light decaying inside him from the inside out. And all of that was nothing compared to the feeling of loss. Crowley had had millennia to come to terms with the hole in his being, and he’d filled it better than most. True there was alcohol, trouble, sleeping for decades on end, more alcohol, but it wasn’t malice and a hatred for humanity that so many other demons used to fill the void in their souls. He’d fallen thousands of times now, only once for real, even though it felt real every time.

But he knew it would end. It had to end. Eventually. The pain began to ebb, slowly, like the tide changing. And over the roar of his ears he began to hear something.

“Not far enough.” That was Hastur’s voice.

“He can’t go any further. None of uzz can.” Beelzebub.

“Consorting with an angel,” Hastur spat, “thinks he can ‘love’.”

Crowley felt sick, his corporation’s heart began to beat faster than it ever had before. He felt sick.

“Once we’re done here, we’re going after the angel.” Ligur must have been here too.

Crowley pushed against the burning sulphur but limbs were too heavy. He tried to summon Hellfire, to burn away the crust of rocks settling on his skin. That had to be what was weighing him down. He summoned it and tried to move. He had to.

They overpowered him easily, Ligur held him down and his struggles were pathetic at best.

“Zee if he ztill thinkz he can love after his heart’z been ripped out.”

Hastur loomed over him and ripped his clothes open with his fingernail.

“Hastur, no need to go to all this fuss, you could have just asked if you wanted me naked so badly.” He’d always been the type to try and talk his way out of things.

Hastur didn’t respond, instead digging his fingers against Crowley’s chest, drawing dark blood. Crowley tried not to gasp; he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

He failed of course, as Hastur pulled away the skin of his chest. He failed again when Ligur punched his ribcage open. His corporation couldn’t take it and he screamed. Hastur reached thought the hole in his ribcage and grabbed at his heart. He pulled it out with a sick twisting motion and Crowley was forced to watch as his bloody heart was presented to Beelzebub. To watch as they laughed at him. And as Hastur leaned down to his body he heard him whisper.

“Hope your angel likes his present,” he said, waving Crowley’s own heart under his nose.

1862 London

Crowley woke with a start. He immediately stretched out his awareness, looking for any signs of his tormentors. There was nothing. He fell back against his pillow. A nightmare. That was all it had been.

Crowley had been sleeping since shortly after Eden, humans seemed to enjoy it an awful lot, so he’d decided to give it a try. The resting and the feeling refreshed afterwards he could get behind. Dreams, even, were fine. But nightmares, they were something else. He’d seen the worst of humanity and was quite literally from Hell, which meant his imagination had plenty to use to torture him. It also didn’t help that they were few and far between: Lulling him into a false sense of security and making him believe that it was worth sleeping regardless of the risk.

He stood up and walked down to his sitting room. His footsteps echoing through the empty rooms and hallways. He picked up the newspaper that had been shoved through the slot in his door and balked when he saw the date. 1862? He’d slept for 62 years?

Somewhere in the back of his panic-addled mind he felt a pang of guilt. When he’d gone to bed, he’d had no idea it would be for so long. He wondered how Aziraphale – Aziraphale!

He looked outside to see how fashion had changed in the last six decades and quickly miracled himself into a black version of what people were wearing. He was disappointed for a second that the men’s fashion was so much duller than the women’s, but he doubted that it had gotten any easier for women in England, so he stuck with the boring suit. The top hat was definitely something though.

He needed a plan. Something. Anything. A way to make sure that his dream never became a reality. If Hell caught onto them, he’d need to make sure he was one step ahead. He knew he couldn’t beat them in a fair fight. Fortunately, he had no intention of fighting fair. He pulled a piece of paper from his desk and scribbled on it quickly before leaving.

The walk from Charring Cross to Soho seemed to take forever. It wasn’t even an entire mile but Crowley’s patience had warn itself as thin as a hair by the time he could see the bookshop.

For one incredible, blissful moment, Crowley forgot why he was there. He looked through the window and saw Aziraphale, sitting at a wooden desk reading some book or another, his hand resting on his cheek. Crowley didn’t often judge the people of London for not noticing an angel in their midst, but he had no idea how they could miss it in that moment. Crowley stared at Aziraphale until he remembered why he was there.

“Angel?” He said, entering the store.

“Crowley?” Crowley was sure he hadn’t imagined the way Aziraphale’s face lit up. “You’re awake!”

“Yeah, er, sorry, I didn’t know it would be that long,” Crowley said, all the fight rushing out of him as he was allowed to bask in Aziraphale’s bookshop. Aziraphale was everywhere here, from the cluttered shelves of books to the columns to the oval carpet in the centre that was somehow tartan. Where had he managed to find that?

“How’s business?” Crowley asked, that seemed to be a good normal thing to say.

“Oh it’s absolutely dreadful,” said the angel delightedly, “Only one customer this week.”

Crowley was confused, and not in the way someone who has just woken up is confused, but in the very real ‘what is going on?’ kind of way. “That’s a good thing?”

“It’s splendid,” Aziraphale beamed, “I couldn’t possibly part with my books.”

Crowley couldn’t resist the urge to smile. That was so utterly Aziraphale, opening a bookshop with no intention of selling a single book.

“I believe,” Aziraphale said, bustling over to the door and flipping the sign to ‘closed’, “that I have a bottle of _Clos des Ursules _tucked away here somewhere,” he said fishing a bottle from a cupboard that seemed to be slowly turning into an enormous cellar simply because Aziraphale didn’t expect to run out of space in which to store his wine.

He couldn’t do it. Crowley couldn’t put all of this on Aziraphale right away. To use a colloquialism, he chickened the fuck out. But how could he not? Aziraphale was happy to see him. Really, truly happy. Crowley was willing to do anything to keep it that way.

But would he be happy to receive Hastur’s present? A nasty voice whispered in his mind.

Crowley knew he was just procrastinating (he had, after all, learned procrastination from the very best), but he promised himself that he wouldn’t for long. And he’d hold himself to it. He had to.

“And that Beau Brummel!” Aziraphale was saying, “Completely ruined men’s fashion! I hoped his being dead for twenty odd years would have lessened his grip on all the tailors in London, but apparently not.”

Crowley just grinned, “You could always try the other kind.”

Aziraphale sighed, “I do keep meaning to,” he said, “but now? with those awful corsets-“

“Corsets are back?”

“Oh yes, very much so. And those enormous crinolines. Besides, I have a persona to maintain here, I don’t exactly have the opportunity to run about changing my gender willy-nilly.”

“Willy-nilly?” Crowley laughed.

“Don’t start,” Aziraphale warned, but with a smile.

“When was the last time you tried it, anyway?” Crowley asked, he hadn’t seen Aziraphale present as anything other than male for ages.

“You were there actually,” Aziraphale replied.

“What? Rome?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a faint flush appearing on his cheeks at Crowley’s tone.

“So you’ve just got a strong preference or . . .” Crowley trailed off.

“Oh no, I just don’t have the energy to worry about such things,” Aziraphale said.

The stayed up quite late into the night, drinking and talking. Crowley had quite a bit to catch up on and was making a note to see several of the things Aziraphale mentioned, including something called the internal combustion engine, which promised to be big.

He knew he should say something, and he was kicking himself for not doing it as he bid Aziraphale goodnight.

“Er, angel?” He said.

“Yes, my dear fellow?” Aziraphale looked up.

“When’s your next day off?”

“Well, I have to give a report on Wednesday so I’m afraid it won’t be until Sunday,” Aziraphale said.

“Keep your calendar free,” Crowley said, “meet me at St James Park at midday?”

“Certainly.”

Perfect, he’d ask him then.

Sunday rolled around far more quickly than Crowley was prepared for, but sure enough it came.

He waited for Aziraphale, who strolled up to him inconspicuously and began to feel ducks from his hat. Crowley knew he couldn’t put off asking forever.

“Look, I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong? We’ve got a lot in common, you and me . . .” Crowley said, forcing himself to say it.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said “We may have both started off as angels but you are Fallen.”

“I didn’t really fall,” Crowley said, getting off track, “I just, you know, sauntered vaguely downwards.” He caught himself. “I need a favour.”

“We already have the agreement, Crowley, stay out of each other’s way, lend a hand when needed.” He knew Aziraphale was only behaving so coldly because there was the chance they were being watched, but it still stung. It made him wonder if Aziraphale was secretly angry with him for being gone so long.

“This is something else. For if it all goes pear shaped.”

“I like pears,” Aziraphale said in a way that made it very difficult for Crowley to keep going.

“If it all goes wrong. I want insurance.”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, so casually that he clearly had no idea what was coming.

“I wrote it down. Walls have ears.” He realised they were in a park as he handed the note over, “Well, not walls, trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must do, that’s how they hear other ducks.” He was aware that he was rambling, but that didn’t mean he was able to stop.

“Out of the question,” Aziraphale said in a tone so final it stopped Crowley’s ramblings.

“Why not?” he asked.

“It would destroy you.” Aziraphale said, breaking his cool façade, “I’m not bringing you a suicide pill Crowley.”

“That’s not what I want it for. Just insurance.”

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley had to bite back his retort, “Do you know what trouble I’d be in if . . . If they knew I’d been fraternising?”

Fraternising? Is that what he was calling it? Well then.

“It’s completely out of the question,” Aziraphale continued.

“Fraternising?” Crowley spat.

“Well whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.” Aziraphale said and Crowley could feel his blood boiling. How could Aziraphale be so obtuse? This was their way of staying safe, of continuing to . . . fraternise (he was starting to really hate that word). Of course, if that was all it was to Aziraphale . . .

“I have lots of other people to fraternise with, angel,” he said, not bothering to keep the anger from his voice.

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale said, giving as good as he got.

“I don’t need you,” Crowley lied as Aziraphale turned away.

“And the feeling is mutual! Obviously!” Aziraphale said, throwing the note into the lake and having the gall to miracle it into burning.

“Obviously!” Crowley mocked. He felt like shit. He wanted to go back to sleep, risk of nightmares be damned. Anything was better than this.

As Aziraphale walked away he fought back a sob and failed. He hoped he’d done the right thing, but there was no Crowley there to reassure him that he had. He couldn’t be the reason for Crowley’s death. He could still remember how hopeless Crowley had seemed at Kimbolton Castle. He couldn’t let Crowley go down that road. Even if it meant having to sever ties with him. The world was better with Crowley in it, even if he could never admit that he believed that, not even to himself. And if it meant giving him up, even when he’d only just gotten him back, then that was what he had to do.


End file.
